


4 people who don’t know what happened in Berlin + 1 person who does

by sporkmetender



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Espionage, Gen, Homophobia, Misogyny, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporkmetender/pseuds/sporkmetender
Summary: "Lorraine" wants her life back...but what does she really have to go back to, and why does it all seem to remind her of everything that went wrong in Berlin?A series of mildly connected events in the days and months following the shootout in Paris, viewed through the eyes of two colleagues, two acquaintances, and Emmett Kurzfeld.





	1. Phillip Cosgrove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



> Spookykingdomstarlight, I have to thank you for giving me a pretty specific prompt that was in an entirely different zip code from my wheelhouse. I normally write fluffy femslash smut, and this is...definitely not that. Possibly even the opposite of that.
> 
> I really enjoyed the chance to challenge myself with new writing styles, perspectives, and subject matter. I hope this ticks several boxes for you. Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Thanks are also due to my awesome wife for her editing and cheerleading efforts.

Phillip was getting worried. Lorraine had never checked in with him after the debriefing. He’d assumed she needed some time to unwind after the disastrous events in Berlin, so he’d let it slide for a few days. Lorraine had always been a bit of a lone wolf, after all.

But now it had been over a week and he still hadn’t heard from her, and he’d been ringing her multiple times a day. He’d even shown up at her flat a few times, but it was dark and (as far as he could tell) empty.

Just as he was considering breaking into her flat, his office door flew open with a bang and Jack came bursting through. Phillip just barely held in a shriek.

“Bremovych is dead! There’s been a shootout in Paris, and Bremovych and a bunch of other Russians are dead!”

“What? How do we know?”

“Our Paris informant noticed he hadn’t seen any of the usual Russians for several days, and then some big Russian mucky-muck swooped in and started roughing people up, so Bart started asking questions. Turns out there was a big shootout at a fancy hotel in Paris last week, and Bremovych’s whole team is dead.”

“Did he mention anything about Lorraine being involved?”

“Not a peep.”

“Shite. I haven’t heard from her since the debriefing. Obviously she wouldn’t have instigated a firefight with her foreign handler without approval, but perhaps she was kidnapped or pressured somehow.”

Jack paled and swallowed. “I’ll ask Bart to make discreet inquiries, shall I?”

Phillip nodded firmly.

“Right away, sir.”

Phillip let out a sigh as soon as Jack closed the door. What on earth could have possessed her to meet Bremovych without having anything to offer him? Had he been so displeased with her performance in Berlin that he’d tried to kill her? And if so, why hadn’t her body been found as well? Perhaps she’d been injured but gotten away from the scene…

Phillip was suddenly struck with an image of a comatose Lorraine languishing in some long-term care ward in a Parisian hospital, or even in the morgue. It was unconscionable to think of a colleague being hung out to dry like that, even a mouthy, irritating one. MI6 took care of its own.

He picked up his phone and dialed his boss, checking the contents of his mission bag while the phone rang.

“Office of Senior Directorate Officer Gray, how may I help you?”

“Hi Sandy, I need to fly to Paris this afternoon. I may have a lead on Lorraine.”

“Yes, C. I’ll let Officer Gray know. When shall I tell him you’ll be back?”

Phillip zipped his bag shut and swung it onto his shoulder. “In a few days, I expect. Thanks.”

Two hours later, he was on a plane, and three hours after that, he was questioning his second set of unhelpful medical personnel in very rusty French.

 

* * *

 

After several days of fruitless searching by both himself and Bart, his half-formed visions of coming to a grateful Lorraine’s rescue were looking less and less likely. At every turn, he met nothing but headshakes, Gallic shrugs, and exasperated sighs. Finally, a terse call with Officer Gray let him know that without any leads to keep him in Paris, he was expected to get his arse back to London and do his damn job, preferably without misplacing any more valuable double agents.

 

* * *

 

Officially speaking, Lorraine was “missing, presumed dead.” The more Phillip thought about it, the less satisfied he was with that conclusion. But what alternative was there?

The whole thing was incredibly frustrating, and he resolved to put it out of his mind.

Wherever she was, Lorraine would just have to manage on her own. She was a bit naïve, he thought—remarkably guileless for a double agent—but she had a certain sort of insouciant charm about her. She’d landed on her feet a few times before. She would probably be fine.

Someone else would come swooping in to rescue her, and it wouldn’t be C. Not this time. After all, he had a new agent to train and a new world order to reckon with—one without a Berlin wall. There was no time to waste on a failed second-rate spy when the delicate balance of the free world was resting in his capable hands.


	2. Danny Jeffries

It was never a good sign when Danny could hear yelling before he even opened the door. He cursed and sprinted up the stairs, but he was pretty sure he knew what he’d see when he got there. He should have waited to have lunch—it was never a good idea to leave when JJ was mouthing off—but goddamn it a man’s gotta eat.

When he came sprinting around the corner, takeout bag swinging wildly, Stack was leaning casually on the ropes, but he could tell she was pissed. Her face was hard, her shoulders were tight, and she was glaring at JJ instead of looking to see who had just pelted up the stairs.

JJ’s friends were swearing at Stack and making empty threats, but nobody seems to be making a move towards the ring.

What a shocker. Bunch of fucking limp-dicked assholes.

Danny thought he was already braced for the worst, but he looked down at JJ and his heart sank. There was a pool of blood forming around his head, and his jaw was clearly fucked up. Looked like someone finally got tired of JJ’s cocky mouth.

Too bad it had to be Stack.

Too bad it had to happen in Danny’s gym, just in time for his lunch to get cold.

“Nobody move him,” he yelled, because he could already see at least one of JJ’s idiot friends approaching the ring when Stack finally ducked between the ropes. Danny rushed to the office to call an ambulance, chucking his lunch in the grungy little mini fridge.

When he hung up the phone, Stack was standing in the doorway, already fully dressed and carrying her gear bag.

Danny sighed and shook his head.

Stack looked like she was trying to be apologetic, but he didn’t believe it for a second. “Sorry about your lunch, Danny.”

“I don’t care about my fucking lunch, Stack. There’s gonna be cops here in about three minutes. And you’re officially banned from the gym.”

Stack hefted her bag on her shoulder, and Danny noticed she had a pretty hefty bruise coming in on her knuckles.

“He had it coming.”

“Of course he had it coming. He’s a goddamn idiot. But you didn’t have to break his fucking jaw. He’s just a stupid kid. ”

Stack’s eyes hardened. “They have to learn sometime. He’ll be drinking through a straw for a few months, but he’ll live.”

“Christ, Stack. You’re lucky I like you. Get the fuck outta here. I’ll tell the cops you ran out the back.”

Stack nodded, cool as a cucumber. If Danny’d ever had any doubts about her day job, he didn’t anymore.

Danny could hear a siren getting closer, and Stack grimaced faintly as she turned to leave.

Even without the ban, he knew she wouldn’t be back.

 

* * *

 

It ended up being pretty anticlimactic, really. Danny gave a highly edited statement to the cops, JJ got carried out on a backboard, and JJ’s friends all piled into the ambulance, leaving Danny with an empty gym and an emptier stomach.

He grumbled as he saw what a mess the ring was. The idiot friends had tracked blood over half the goddamn floor while “helping” the paramedics, and he was tempted to ban them all permanently.

Instead, he bit his tongue and grabbed the cleaning supplies, cursing JJ for making him ban the hottest, scariest woman to ever step foot into his gym.

It was almost 3:30 by the time he got to eat his cold chow mein.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, there was a blank envelope on his desk when he walked into the office.

The envelope contained enough cash to cover the rest of Stack’s membership fees for the year, plus an extra $100 bill with a note that just said “lunch and cleaning supplies.” It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be.

 

* * *

 

Eight beers into his dinner, Danny burped and muttered something that got lost in the cheers for a Redskins touchdown on the TV.

“Did you say something?” the bartender asked.

Danny shook his head no and gestured sloppily for the bill.

“Fuckin JJ,” he repeated to himself as he pulled a crisp new hundred from his wallet.


	3. Amy Pendleton

Amy knew something weird was going on as soon as the extra security guards showed up in the van across the street and Maria wouldn’t let her play in the backyard anymore.

She tried asking Dad about it at dinner, but he was on the phone the whole time, and Maria was all huffy about it because the cord wasn’t quite long enough, and it was in the way when she was trying to clear the table.

Amy even got up early the next morning to ask over breakfast, but Dad was already shut in the office, and she knew he would only say “I’m busy, sweetheart” if she knocked.

Dad was spending more and more time working and less and less time paying attention to her, and the house was so boring with just Maria there to clean and cook. What was the point of having a huge house and a big TV if she wasn’t even allowed to have Ashley over to play games or watch movies on it? Dad hated Saved by the Bell and Full House, but listening to his complaints was still better than watching by herself.

She really needed to get to the bottom of this situation.

First she tried watching _Sally Jessy Raphael_ with the volume turned up stupidly high. She thought it had worked when her dad poked his head out of his study for the first time all afternoon, but he just yelled for her to turn the volume down and then went back to his phone call.

That night, she tried _Miami Vice_ , to no effect. On Saturday, she tried _Tales from the Crypt_ , which all the girls at school said was super scary and gross. Dad walked right past her holding a plate of cold dinner, but he didn’t even seem to notice the creepy homeless dude getting killed on TV.

She thought it couldn’t get any worse, but boy was she wrong.

Apparently, she was getting a _babysitter_.

“Dad, I’m 12! I don’t need a babysitter. I’m practically a grownup.”

“Honey, I have to go away for a few days, and Maria only works five days a week. She can’t keep an eye on you every second of every day. Debbie here is a good friend of mine, and she’s going to keep an eye on you while I straighten out a business...situation in France.”

“Debbie” was kinda old for one of Dad’s “friends,” surprisingly dressed down, and surprisingly boring looking. In other words, she was completely unlike any of the women “friends” Dad usually brought around, and Amy’s spider senses were tingling worse than ever.

Also, as it turned out, Debbie had no clue how to deal with children.

Amy was pretty sure she was the least competent babysitter in the history of ever. She didn’t care if Amy wanted to watch TV all day, or eat SpaghettiOs with her bare hands, or tear up Dad’s dumb car magazines, or _anything_. The biggest reaction Amy managed to get out of her was a sigh and an eye roll when Amy started jumping on the couch to see if she could touch the ceiling fan.

After two days of escalating shenanigans (and no phone calls from Dad, who had definitely been in France long enough to have plenty of meetings about his “business situation”), Amy was convinced that Debbie didn’t care whether she lived or died.

She learned otherwise when she tried climbing out her bedroom window at 1:00 a.m. on a mission to see the sky for the first time in a week. She’d barely gotten one foot on the roof when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder and haul her back into the room.

She shrieked in surprise, but Debbie quickly slammed the window shut and pulled the blinds back down.

“Do you have a death wish, kid? Where the hell were you even going?”

“Out.”

Debbie snorted. “You’re 12. And your dad’s an overprotective international arms dealer. You’ve never gone “out” in your life.”

Amy froze. “How did y—I mean, where did you get the idea that Dad is an arms dealer? That’s ridiculous. He’s just a successful international businessman.”

Debbie just raised an eyebrow.

Amy opened her mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. Her shoulders slumped.

“Look, kid, I’m only here because your Dad saved my ass in a dicey situation a few years ago, and he called in a favor. You didn’t give away any secrets, and I don’t give a shit what you do while I’m here, but you _cannot_ leave this house. Got it?”

Amy slowly nodded and got back in bed, trying to process all this new information.

She woke to a very loud noise from downstairs. It sounded like glass breaking, and hissing, and gunfire all at the same time.

Amy looked around in a panic, realizing that if someone was attacking the house while they knew her dad wasn’t home, they were almost definitely trying to kill or kidnap her.

She scrambled out of bed and headed straight for the closet, not even bothering to be quiet as the pops of gunfire came in regular bursts now, and Amy thought she heard a crackling sound too.

Her hands were shaking hard enough that it took her three tries to get the combination lock on the secret room open. Before she even had time to open the door, Debbie slid into her bedroom, holding a gun in one hand and a cloth over her nose with the other. She seemed to be covered in a significant amount of blood and...feathers? But Amy only had eyes for the billow of smoke that followed her into the room before she managed to shut the door.

“Time to go, kid” Debbie whispered, and Amy felt herself nod way too hard, like some sort of demented toy.

Amy took a step toward the bedroom door and then stopped when Debbie yanked the window open—the same one she’d hauled Amy in through four hours ago—and gestured forcefully.

Amy clambered out the window, choking on the smoke that was so much thicker outside.

Debbie climbed out right behind her, and Amy thought she heard a grunt of pain, but then Debbie was hauling her forward and down one of the porch columns at a far faster pace than Amy had ever dared on one of her nighttime escapades.

They crept across the back yard from tree to tree like they were in some sort of terrible Looney Tunes chase scene. Amy desperately wanted to ask where they were going, but this seemed like a pretty bad time for questions, especially given that Debbie was holding her side in a way that made Amy really nervous.

There was a faint cracking sound from over near the playset.

They both froze for a few seconds, listening for any further noises over the roar of the fire and the sound of distant sirens.

“Amy,” Debbie whispered directly into her ear. “I need you to put pressure on my side for a minute. Can you do that?”

At the same time, Amy felt a hand grabbing at her wrist. She allowed her hand to be pulled to Debbie’s torso. It was warm and slippery and entirely disgusting, but she did her best to put pressure where Debbie directed.

As soon as Amy’s hand was in place, Debbie raised her gun and slowly peeked out from behind their current tree. She seemed almost frozen in that position, and Amy was torn between a mad desire to peek around the tree herself and a completely sane desire to stay perfectly still and not die.

Her childhood home was now completely in flames, and the heat and smoke were oppressive, even at this distance. The smoke was getting worse by the minute, and Amy had the sinking realization that she needed to cough. The cough was slipping up her chest towards her throat, tickling and itching and burning, and she was sure she couldn’t take a single breath without letting it out.

Just as she was getting ready to get herself and her “babysitter” killed, Debbie sprang into action.

Amy heard two shots ring out, and then two more.

They were unbelievably loud at this distance, and her ears were ringing so badly she couldn’t even hear herself coughing.

When they finally moved from their hiding spot, Debbie took them on a winding path around to the front of the house. Amy was torn between being vaguely honored that Debbie had tried to avoid letting her see any dead bodies and being incredibly irritated that Debbie was insisting on following a less than direct path when anyone could see she was seriously injured.

By the time they got to the street, a fire truck, an ambulance, and four police cars were outside.

Two minutes later, they were being hustled into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital, where Debbie insisted on making several phone calls before she would let herself be taken in for surgery. The doctor was arguing with her, but she pulled something shiny out of her pocket and flashed it at him, and he threw up his hands and walked away.

Several really tall men with a severe case of frowny face showed up a few minutes later. Debbie nodded at them, then at Amy.

The oldest looking one nodded back at her, and then Debbie was being wheeled away by some very unimpressed nurses.

Amy shocked herself by managing to fall asleep upright in the hospital waiting room, but Debbie’s friends were very nice about it, in that same stern, awkward-with-kids way that Debbie had.

 

* * *

 

The next several days involved a lot of terrible hospital food, a very awkward shopping trip for some new clothes, and a tearful reunion with her dad.

Of course, because her dad was her dad, all he said to Debbie was “Thank you,” which seemed a little inadequate when she was in a hospital bed after saving his daughter’s life, but Amy could tell he really meant it.

Debbie just nodded at him and gave Amy a wink before she went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Losing all of her stuff in a fire was pretty terrible, Amy thought, but it really could have been worse. After all, she and Dad were fine, Ashley was super jealous of her for staying in the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons while their new house was built, and she had some amazing stories to tell about the Best Babysitter Ever.


	4. Charles Daniel Roberts III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that I thought deserved the misogyny and homophobia tags. Chuck is a real asshole, you guys.

Chuck did another set of 10 perfect curls and stopped for a rest, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder at Cole. Like always, she was ignoring him. She seemed to be doing some sort of disappointingly unsexy stretching routine in long sleeves and sweatpants.

What was even the point of having hot women in the CIA if they dressed like nuns, refused to get you coffee, and ignored you all the time? Not for the first time, he wondered if she might be a dyke, but the Agency definitely frowned on that, so probably not. Still a waste of a gorgeous face, though.

Rumor said she’d just come off a stint of deep cover triple-agent work in Berlin, but anybody could tell that was bullshit. She probably wasn’t even any good at spying. They probably sent her to talk to horny Russians and she just had to spread her legs to get them blabbing everything they knew.

By the time he’d finished another set of curls, Cole had finished stretching and was over by the heavy bag, taping her hands. Did she seriously think she was some kind of boxer or something? What a joke! Chuck snickered, not bothering to be quiet about it, and her head snapped in his direction.

“Got something to say?”

Chuck reracked his weights and turned to face her, flexing just enough to highlight his biceps. “You know what you’re doing in a ring, huh? Feel like a little friendly sparring?”

Cole sized him up for a second and then resumed putting her gloves on. “Sure. Roberts, right? New guy?”

“Not _that_ new. Been with the Agency about 9 months now.”

Cole smiled very faintly, but said nothing.

Chuck grabbed a pair of 20 oz. gloves and quickly put them on, smirking when Cole raised an eyebrow at his lack of tape. As if he needed wrist tape to school a thirty-something woman who’d returned from Berlin three months ago held together with bandages and spite (according to rumor).

They tapped gloves to start, and then Cole took up a pretty respectable boxing stance—and waited.

Chuck felt her out with a half-speed jab, which she quickly deflected. He followed up with two more jabs and a right hook, a little faster this time. She blocked the first two and neatly ducked the last one. She still hadn’t made any move to hit him. In fact, she was treating him like a novice.

“Not gonna hit me?”

Cole just shrugged and smirked again.

He came in faster this time—a fake jab to set up a cross and then finish with an uppercut. It would have been a great combo, but she somehow dodged it all. Didn’t even flinch as the uppercut sailed two inches in front of where her chin had been moments earlier.

Cole’s face was still irritatingly blank, but he was definitely getting to her—he could see it in her eyes.

He swung again—staying low this time, so she couldn’t duck. She made a show of blocking every single shot.

She still hadn’t taken a single swing. What the fuck? Was she playing with him?!

There were some low murmurs in the background, and he could sense an audience gathering about twenty feet from the mats. He even thought he heard his boss’s distinctive laugh among the crowd.

Cole was smirking at him again, and he couldn’t stand it.

“You think that’s funny?” he hissed. “You think it’s funny to make everyone laugh at the new guy? We’ll see who’s laughing when we go at full speed.”

Cole just gestured him forward, still with that stupid smirk.

Chuck launched himself into a punishing combo at full speed. He felt a right hook connect with her ribs, saw her torso sway, saw her wince, and grinned fiercely. She was going down.

Ninety seconds later, she had blocked or dodged almost every hit and still looked cool and collected.

Chuck, meanwhile, was sweating and gasping, unused to boxing at full capacity for so long. Going on full offense was tiring, especially after a full workout.

He was just considering calling for a time-out so he could get a drink and catch his breath, and that moment of distraction was when she finally hit him.

Insultingly, it was the most delicate jab imaginable. Just a little tap to his chin, gentle enough that his head didn’t even move.

He should have called a stop right then, because he was clearly outclassed if she had the control to reach right through his defenses like that without hurting him.

But he heard someone snicker from the crowd, and he absolutely refused to be a laughing stock.

“Fuck you, _Little_ _Debbie_ ,” he muttered, low enough that the audience wouldn’t be able to hear it over the sounds of their feet on the mats.

“You wish” she muttered back, and followed up with a barrage of light jabs, most of which connected.

The laughter from the crowd was getting louder. “You sure showed her, Mister Bigshot” came a jeer that sounded a lot like the building janitor.

Chuck gritted his teeth and held on for his shot. He knew he wouldn’t get many openings on her, but nobody was perfect, and she had to be getting tired doing this kind of crazy precision work.

Then it happened—she dropped her left shoulder, just for a second, and he went in for a cross at full power.

The next thing he knew, he was lying face down on a filthy athletic mat, and his ears wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Not too bad, for a rookie,” came Cole’s voice from somewhere above him. He heard footsteps heading towards the locker room, and then there was a surge of chatter and some rustling of paper.

“Damn, I’m glad Cole’s back in DC” he heard someone say. “We haven’t had a newbie takedown like that in almost a year.”

Was that Jack from Special Activities? Chuck attempted to turn and look, but his head weighed about a million pounds right now, and he eventually gave up. So much for making a good impression and requesting a transfer next year.  

Maybe Cole was a half decent spy after all.

There were some more papery sounds as people began moving away. “Drinks on me tonight!” said Chuck’s boss’s voice. “I can’t believe any of you idiots still bet against Cole anymore.”

She was still a smug, uptight bitch, though.


	5. Emmett Kurzfeld

Emmett waited until the rest of the crowd had filed out of the gym before helping Paulson lift Roberts to his feet. Poor kid never knew what hit him, even though Debbie’s shoulder drop was textbook bait.

But Emmett had seen the type before, and he knew what had happened. Debbie had an unerring nose for that kind of arrogant young pup, and she knew just how to smack them down.

She was a pleasure to watch on the mats, but she was wasted at headquarters and everyone knew it—including her.

He shook his head at the thought of an accomplished triple agent playing bodyguard-slash-babysitter to the spoiled daughter of an arms dealer. And getting injured, no less.

That idiot Roberts had probably set her recovery back several days with that lucky rib shot right on her healing wound. Maybe that would teach her to pick fights when she was still injured.

Probably not though.

Emmett chuckled to himself as he left Paulson in charge of wrestling a grumpy Roberts into the showers.

Debra Cole was a stubborn, sneaky, manipulative bitch, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it did have her insisting she was “happy to be home” when they both knew she didn’t have one anymore.

He knew for a fact that she’d barely been back to her apartment since Berlin. He’d caught her sleeping on the cot in his office more than once—and those were just the times she’d been tired enough (or hungover enough) not to bother sneaking out before he came in.

He took the elevator upstairs and calculated the odds that she would already be in his office when he got there.

Based on how often she went out for drinks with the team even during her official leave, she was clearly not spending much time with her family, if any.

She hated kids and seemed to have decided to avoid romantic entanglements for the foreseeable future, if some of her drunken comments on the flight back from Paris were to be believed.

She wasn’t even going to that shitty boxing gym near Brentwood anymore (for reasons that he refused to investigate), which meant that the CIA was her family now. And that meant…

He opened the door to his office to reveal a moody-looking Debbie sitting in his chair, drinking his scotch.

Emmett settled into another chair with a creak and a sigh. “Nice show downstairs.”

Debbie shook her head. “He got to me. I was going to go easy on him, but he got in that stupid rib shot and I gave him a concussion. He's lucky that’s all I gave him. Can’t get away from these goddamn stupid kids everywhere.”

She took another swig of scotch and wrinkled her nose. “You’re out of vodka, by the way, which is why I’m drinking this crap.”

“Did it occur to you that I ran out of vodka on purpose so you might consider sleeping somewhere else every now and then?”

“But it’s so comfortable!” She gestured airily at the filing cabinets, the peeling paint, and the stacks of paper everywhere.

Emmett made eye contact with her and held it.

There was a long pause.

“So,” he said, “are you finally in my office during working hours to tell me you want a nice cushy desk assignment for a while?”

“Damn it, Kurz, you know I’m climbing the walls at this point. Tell me you've got something a little more exciting than that up your sleeve.”

“Well, I do have a pretty interesting little post-Berlin-Wall assignment sitting on my desk, now that you mention it...”

Debbie cocked her head.

“But it requires going to Moscow for at least two weeks, and I know you wanted to stay closer to home.”

Debbie’s left shoulder twitched—her only tell.

Emmett waited.

“Oh fine.” She knocked back the rest of her scotch and got up to leave. “You know I can’t resist sticking it to the Russians. At least they never run out of vodka.”

“Try not to punch any idiots on your way out!” Emmett called after her retreating back.

“No promises!”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a huge leap into the unknown for me as a writer. If you feel so inclined, please let me know what you thought in the comments.


End file.
